A journalist. Here. Now.
I should've left her in the snow.
But the fear in her voice was real. Raw. The kind that comes from watching someone die.
Turning back to her, I grip the cold towel between calloused fingers, my mind already mapping contingencies with military precision.
Ifshe's a journalist—and that fear in her voice screams investigative—she'll have backup files somewhere.
Dead drops. Insurance policies. She'll try to make contact the moment she wakes up.
I need to sweep her phone. Check for tracking devices. Map every camera in a ten-mile radius that could've caught her arrival.
When she wakes—when, not if, because failure isn't an option—she'll either bolt or attack.
The way she moved in the snow, even injured, suggests training.
Not military, but something adjacent. Self-defense classes.
Maybe Krav Maga. She'll go for vulnerable points first: throat, eyes, groin.
I position myself by the door, calculating angles. If she fights, I'll need to contain without causing harm.
Right arm to block, left to restrain. Keep her away from the window. Away from anything she could use as a weapon.
The fireplace poker. The ceramic mug on the counter. The letter opener in my desk drawer.
Keep her alive. Keep her controlled. Keep her from bringing hell down on Iron Hollow.
Because journalists don't just stumble into Montana wilderness with pursuers on their tail.
They chase stories. And stories like that—the ones worth dying for—they don't end when the reporter disappears.
They explode.
Three steps ahead. Always three steps ahead.
But when I step into the living room, ready to check on her?—
She’s gone.
3
SLOANE
Consciousness creeps back like a tide, bringing with it the scent of cedar smoke and something else.
Coffee, rich and dark, drifting from somewhere nearby.
My bones ache as awareness returns, muscles protesting every subtle shift against what feels like worn leather beneath me.
The floorboards creak under my weight as I push myself upright, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior.
Rustic beams stretch across the vaulted ceiling, drawing my gaze toward a stone fireplace that dominates the far wall. Shadows dance where flames lick weathered granite, casting amber warmth across scattered throw pillows and well-loved furniture.
The bag.
My heart slams against my ribs as I lunge for my messenger bag, still propped against the couch where I must have dropped it. My fingers shake as I dig through its contents—laptop, thumb drive, burner phone. All here. All untouched.
